


Escape

by Eireann



Series: Jag [9]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm is still working for Section 31, but Enterprise is under construction. He finds himself wondering...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.
> 
> Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom all due thanks! And thanks also to Zero Credibility for help and encouragement.

Heedless of the cold and damp of the grass, he slithered down the embankment, ducked just under the edge of the bridge and sat down, satisfied now that he was no longer pursued but by no means averse to hiding up for a little longer. Out of habit he checked his hands. Clean.  _Technically, at any rate_. Nothing on his clothes either, as far as he could tell in the darkness. The canal water reflected hardly a gleam of light from the buildings that surrounded him, mostly empty and derelict. The surface was as dark as his clothes and his thoughts, that night.

'The end justifies the means.' He believed that.

He had to believe that.

And yet probably so did at least some of the people against whom he was one more pawn in a dirty game of chess, played out in the shadows by men who never showed their faces.

Some days were easier to bear than others. Sometimes he even found himself enjoying it, pitting his wits and his training against fate, knowing that one misstep could mean discovery and death. Occasionally, however, he made the mistake of noticing the small, insignificant players in the game; of thinking of them as pawns like himself, perhaps caught up half against their will in events which they barely understood, or lured step by step further into the darkness until they no longer knew an escape route existed – if indeed one did by now.

Was there one for him?

The sky overhead was clear. For the first time in a long while he tipped his head back and studied the portion of the heavens visible to him beyond the brickwork. Even now he still looked automatically for Orion, and then for the Plough, pointing the way faithfully north. Not visible from here, though. But there was one star that hung very bright low in the western sky, travelling more swiftly than most of its comrades. Somewhere in that brightness was a ship under construction – the first of the new NX-class starships. A starship in need of a tactical officer, a weapons expert. Possibly not one expected to be expert in some of the weapons he'd trained with and occasionally used when the need was there, but he had all the certifications they were asking for and a good few more on top of that. And although there would be no lack of danger, at least he would be operating in the daylight. If he succeeded. For a position like this, there would be a queue of eager and well-qualified candidates. And he could hardly quote his current paymasters for a reference; at least, not one that hadn't been gone through with a black marker to ink out a great many details that the less salubrious corridors of Starfleet would prefer to keep well out of public scrutiny.

Could the  _Enterprise_  be his escape route?

He had contacts. Working in this business, that was a given. He could get a foot on the ladder, even despite his current employment. But no more than that. The rest would be up to him, to prove that he deserved the post; to impress the interview boards – there'd be more than one. The captaincy was widely touted to be heading in the direction of Commander Jonathan Archer, the son of that Henry Archer who'd designed the engine currently being constructed up there in that ship. Nobody knew yet who'd be appointed as Second Officer, but that was of secondary importance; he or she would probably be either a scientist or an engineer, and officers in those fields would be unlikely to have much to do with the security side of things – he probably wouldn't even recognise their names. Once he got into the workings he was confident he could get hold of the shortlist for his competition, make enquiries about those on whom the betting was heaviest. Sabotage of his rivals was a thing that belonged to the world he had finally realised he didn't belong in and never would, but there was no reason why he shouldn't use any information he could get to make his own candidacy look more attractive. A grasp of strategy and tactics was part of the requirement for the job. He'd passed all his exams, he had weapons experience, he'd taken all the Starfleet assessments and medicals; he was a Lieutenant in all but name. If he could get that posting he'd get the rank to go with it.

It would be risky. Very risky. The Section wouldn't like it. He didn't imagine for a moment that even a tentative enquiry from him about the post would escape the gaze of the man who controlled his activities from the shadows. Possibly his continued survival depended on just how pissed off Harris would be by the prospective defection of an agent who'd proved himself very capable on a number of rather dubious missions. He might be regarded as not significant enough to pose such a degree of threat that he'd merit being quietly disposed of in some unfortunate 'accident;' he might be regarded as trustworthy enough to keep his mouth shut, for his own sake as much as anyone else's. After all, his activities would hardly be any recommendation to any future commanding officer in the more respectable areas of Starfleet if he spilled the beans. It was very much in his own interest to keep silence, as well as the Section's. And an agent whose heart was no longer in his work was more of a liability to employers like his than an asset; if they thought he'd keep his mouth shut, they'd let him go. If not....

Either way, his days in Section 31 would be numbered.

Did Harris trust him? Stupid question. Harris didn't trust anybody. OK. Would Harris regard him as being capable of keeping his mouth shut? Everything depended on that. His  _life_  probably depended on that. In front of him the canal was still and dark and silent. The water could close over his head and swallow him, his hands tied behind his back and a couple of bricks tied to his neck and his ankles. He shuddered convulsively at the thought, feeling the cold death flooding into his lungs and bursting the fragile alveoli asunder. Down there in the foul darkness his body would silently rot away until everything that he had been was homogenous with the slime, and nobody would ever know what had happened to him.

Nevertheless, the prospect of continuing in his current life was almost worse. He'd been drawn into it by the prospect of excitement, of danger, of secrecy. Much of it was still appealing even now. He was honest enough with himself to admit that. But he was slowly growing aware that the further he went and the deeper he sank, the worse the stench became.  _Facilis descensus Averni*._ There were men who apparently had little or no sense of smell. He wasn't one of them. His nature was basically honest and honourable. The deceits and stratagems which his chosen calling required sometimes went diametrically against everything that at bottom he believed in. Of late he'd found himself wanting desperately to slough off the necessity to slink in the shadows, to hide and lie and scheme, to take orders from men like Harris who dealt with the underbelly of humanity and politics.

Jonathan Archer. He'd seen the Commander just once, crossing the plaza outside Headquarters. He'd been talking to another officer, a blond-haired Southerner with a big cheeky grin. It was hardly likely that the prospective Captain would have any recollection of the encounter; Reed had taken care not to draw any attention to himself. Nevertheless an acute recollection remained of a lean, good-looking man with a straight hazel gaze; a man who would never hide in the shadows and make dirty deals. Service with a man like that would be something he could take pride in.

There would be drawbacks, of course. Obtaining and then keeping such a post would in itself involve lying, at least insofar as concealing some of the truth about himself was concerned. Deceit by omission. If ever that came out, Archer would find it hard to forgive.

But why should it come out? He'd be on a starship. Millions of miles from Earth. Surely Harris's arm wouldn't stretch that far.... And if it did, he'd just have to deal with the situation as it arose. He wanted, with a desperation that surprised him, to give his trust where it was earned, to give his service where it would be honourably used. Idiotically, the thought came to him of the medieval custom of becoming someone's liege man: kneeling before them and having your hands enclosed by theirs as you swore fealty. He'd always thought that there must have been something deeply poignant about that ritual. As long as you performed it to someone worthy of your trust, of course. The average noble in the Middle Ages was about on a par with Harris when it came to deserving the service of an honourable man.

His smile in the dark was twisted. On one knee in front of Jonathan Archer, and a phase pistol handed over in token of his fief. Hardly! But ... the Section behind him, his past hidden if not forgotten, and a career in front of him where his talents would earn him more than just staying alive. Suddenly it all looked far too attractive for him not to take the risk.

He glanced up at the sky again. The bright star had vanished. But it would be back again. There was time yet before it would give birth to the new pride of the Fleet; time for him to act. And he would act. Sitting here, he'd made the decision without even being aware of it. The chance was there. The chance to escape. And he wanted to escape; God, how desperately he wanted it.

A storm front was moving in from the open ocean, covering the stars with a misty haze that presaged bad weather. Torn-off rags of cloud moved with it. One of these covered the moon momentarily, sweeping darkness across the derelict buildings and the silent canal.

When it had passed, the shadows beneath the bridge were empty.

Section Operative Malcolm Reed had gone.

 

 

**The End.**

**  
**

***'Facilis descensus Averni' is Latin for 'The descent into Hell is easy.'**

**Author's Note:**

> All comments received with gratitude!


End file.
